Time
by kerbubbles
Summary: Sometimes, Ian just sits around, thinking about time. (Ianthony)


(Ian's POV)

Time.

That's all I think about lately; time and you.

All of my recent thoughts are revolved around time – Minutes, Hours, Days, Weeks, Months, Years.

Minutes.

Sometimes I count the minutes since the last time I had seen your beautiful, angelic face. Since I've seen you're wonderful tan skin, and you're sexy brown eyes. Since I've seen the sexy way your hair hangs in your face, or the way your jeans hug your slender frame perfectly. Since I've gazed longingly at your soft lips, wishing I could kiss you and loving the way your beautiful eyes light up when you smile with those perfect lips.

Hours.

Other times, I've counted the hours I've spent wondering when I'd tell you how I feel, wondering if you'd feel the same. I've come up with countless scenes in my head -You saying you feel the same way about me, hugging me before pulling me in for a slow, passionate first kiss; You rejecting me, saying I was filthy and disgusting, ending our friendship, kicking me out of the house. Sometimes I spend the hours wondering if someday you would surprise me, telling me that you had feelings for me, causing my heart to pound and my mind to be overwhelmed with joy; how I would smile brightly if you said you loved me, pressing my lips lightly to yours, soft at first, but growing more passionate as pent-up emotion flowed through my entire body, taking control of my senses.

Days.

And then there's the days I sit in my room, wondering what it would be like if you moved away. Not just out of the house, but out of the state. What it would be like if Smosh just ended. To be honest, I probably wouldn't be able to function properly. I'd just sit in your old room all day, curling up in your bed and sobbing as the slowly fading scent of your cologne filled my nostrils as I clung tightly to your blanket (as it would be the last thing I'd have left of you.), causing all these happy memories of you and I to fill my brain and cause the tears to fall faster. I'd never leave that room.

It would get to the point where I would just lose myself in mindless fantasies where you rush back home, telling me how moving away was the biggest mistake of your life, and how you love me so much and I'll tell you that I missed you and that goddammit Anthony, it's about damn time, do you realize how long I've been waiting for you? It would get so bad that all our friends would just give up, after trying to contact you time after time after time, but you just won't answer, and they'll cry and ask why you won't answer, but you're too busy with your girlfriend to notice Ras is trying to reach you so he doesn't lose another one of his friends. But by the time you've answered, it's too late and I've already withered away because I wouldn't leave the room to eat because I never wanted to leave my fantasy world, fueled only by the fading smell of your cologne, and then you and Ras are crying to each other on the phone, sobbing about how you wish you could've helped.

Weeks.

And then there are the weeks when I wonder why you don't come home that often anymore. Why you're spending so much time with that stupid girlfriend of yours. Why's she so much better than me? You're supposed to be spending your time editing and goofing off with your best friend, not romancing it up with your fucking girlfriend.

But I convince myself I understand, because I do. If I had you, I'd definitely be stealing away all your time. Who wouldn't? You're perfect, and being in your company is the only thing that can cheer me up on a bad day. But, I can only sit and edit, my mind sometimes wondering to the times I miss. The times I long for.

I long for the times when all you had time for was Smosh. The times when we'd stay up all night editing, eventually falling asleep in our chairs, sometimes with our heads on each other's shoulders (whether that was purposeful or accidental, I'm still not sure.). And the times when we'd get bored while editing and start goofing off, messing with old videos or pictures in Photoshop.

I wish you'd come home more often. Those weeks when you almost never come home are the worst for me. I just sit around, wondering whether it's because you're too busy with her, or if it's because you were in a bad car crash before you could make it home. Personally, I think those are both worst case scenarios. There's no best case when you're not with me.

None at all.

You make me worry when you don't show up. Not just about you, but about myself. What I'm doing to myself. Those weeks when you don't show up, I wonder if you're gone for good. If you've decided to marry her, and you two are spending your time planning the wedding, and I won't know until I get the invitation in the mail, or when you finally come home to take a break from the planning to actually help me get Smosh stuff done. Or, if you two have run away together, without a single word, to get away from your lives as internet stars, leaving _me_ to tell the fans that you disappeared, and no, I don't know why, and yes, I know, I miss him too, I was his fucking best friend! And these scenarios make my heart break, make me feel worse than I did when I realized you weren't coming home for a while.

But I know you wouldn't do that.

Not to me.

Would you?

Months and Years.

The years. Oh god, the years. Sometimes, I'll sit on my bed, and my mind will drift off to the first years we started spending time together. Not when we paired up for that project in sixth grade, I mean those months when I started bumming rides off of you, when we _actually _started hanging out. I miss when we just sit in your room all day, munching on Doritos and playing whatever games you had on your 64.

I hate those times because that's the time I first fell in love with you.

Oh, I wish I would've known what you would do to me. To my heart.

My favorite memory is the first time we got high. Because that was the day we decided to start dating.

It was only an experiment, I know, and I should have declined, but I was naïve and I thought, no, I _knew_ I was in love, so I couldn't turn down the chance. I knew you were just using the fact that I was gay, testing because you were curious about these thoughts you were having, and god, why didn't I just decline? But god, it was amazing. You gave the best kisses, the best hugs, and your hands were warm and they felt so nice when they were intertwined with mine, and I _loved_ you.

But you didn't love me.

You can't love me.

No one can.

But that year we dated was the best year of my life.

And you threw it all away. You tore me apart when you did that. I know you don't know you did it, but you tore my idiotic, naïve little heart to pieces.

And now all I can do is sit in my room, thinking about all this. These measurements of time, how they relate to us, and how you tear me apart, but I still love you. And I wonder why you picked her. What's wrong with me? Is it because I'm not a girl? Because I don't care that you're not a woman. I could teach you how to not care, if it'd make you love me.

All I can do is curl up in the only blanket you left behind, smelling your cologne, wondering why you picked her. Why you moved in with her. Was I terrible roommate? Unbearable? Did I smell bad? Was I annoying? Because I could change all of that.

I could change all of that, just for you.

But these questions remain unanswered. I'm too afraid to ask them. So I just curl up on your bed and stare at the clock, waiting for the times you come home, your _real _home, to film and to edit.

Never just to see me.

Just for business.

Why do I love you, when you hurt me so?

When you hurt me across all these minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years.

When you break my heart and tear me apart over time.


End file.
